


No Homo (Or: All of the Homo)

by Jabberwocky (Sisterwives)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angry Sex, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, PWP, Sexual Confusion, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 23:53:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6728389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sisterwives/pseuds/Jabberwocky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an embarrassing incident at the Christmas party, Ceitus is forced to work together with his rival. What was supposed to be an after school session to practice weight lifting and spotting with each other turns into something entirely different when Ceitus tackles Izaiah and they end up wrestling on the floor of his basement. Ceitus is forced to address his confused feelings about his sexuality and the fact that he is definitely not straight. Porn with minimal plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Homo (Or: All of the Homo)

The first day back at school after Christmas break had Ceitus on edge. He kept _waiting_ for someone to comment about his actions at Dorian’s party, convinced that everyone knew about the angry, drunken kiss he’d shared with Izaiah.

The jeers he was waiting for never came, and all his preparation to deny any accusations of gayness were for naught. Dorian’s party had been so eventful that his tryst with Izaiah was overshadowed by the many other wild things that had occurred.

It didn’t make gym class any less awkward, though.

Once mid-year exams were over and they settled back into their class routines, Ceitus had to work with Izaiah in the weight room, like he had every alternating day for the past semester. Their partnership was always rife with frustration, but now there was an undercurrent of tension that weighed heavy between them -- at least, in Ceitus’s mind. Izaiah was as blasé as ever, and Ceitus hated that his emotions were so inscrutable.

They bickered as usual when surrounded by their classmates, but when they were in the locker room, at the only two occupied lockers in their bank, he was sure the subject would be broached.

He just didn’t want to be the one to bring it up, so he periodically stole glances at a shirtless Izaiah and tried to telepathically will him to say something.

It wasn’t working. After mentally cussing him out, Ceitus peeked up at Izaiah again, only to get caught staring.

“Like what you see?” Izaiah said.

“No, shut up!” Ceitus protested, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening in on them. It was a blatant lie, he _did_ like looking at Izaiah, especially when he was half-naked like this -- he was all lean muscle, his skin tan even when it wasn’t baseball season, and the deep V that dipped beneath his waistband had haunted Ceitus late at night, when all his inhibitions had vanished. His face wasn’t bad either, quite attractive even, as much as Ceitus mocked his broken nose (it was only fair, given the number of underbite insults he had to endure from the royal clusterfuck that was Reinis, Valsia, and Izaiah).

“That’s the fifth time you’ve looked at me in the last five minutes. What do you want?”

“Nothing!” It was a knee jerk response, and Izaiah knew it, raising his eyebrows. “Just…” He sidled closer, still keeping an eye out for eavesdroppers. “Are we going to talk about what happened at Christmas?” he asked, voice low.

“We already did. I messaged you. We reached the conclusion that you were wasted and you weren’t thinking, as usual, and no one has any emotions for anyone. What else is there to talk about?”

“I-- I--” Ceitus sputtered as he buttoned his jeans. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. “I don’t know! It’s nothing, right?”

“Do you _want_ it to be something?”

Izaiah met his eyes, and Ceitus averted his. He pulled his clean tank top over his head, effectively hiding his face as he wrestled with his emotions. He didn’t _know_ what he wanted.

The two of them startled at the sudden bellow of their gym teacher’s voice through the locker room door. Ceitus was immensely grateful for the interruption, as it saved him from having to answer the question. “Boys! Make yourself decent, I’m coming in in fifteen.”

Ceitus shook out his swim team hoodie and slid his arms into it while Izaiah pulled on his own shirt. Ceitus tried not to look at the disappearing flash of skin as he tugged it down his abs.

In spite of her gender, Mavis Watcheye strode into the boy's’ locker room like she owned it, which was how she did everything in life.She circled the room, clipboard in hand, and Ceitus pointedly avoided eye contact with Izaiah while he waited for her comments on their performance.

“Barbel, Kestre.” Mave approached them, glancing down at her notes on the clipboard. “Good job today, but you both need to work on your spotting.”

“Why do _I_ need to work on my spotting?” Ceitus protested.

Mave raised her eyebrows at him. “Are you picking a fight with me?”

“No, but he’s the one who almost dropped the dumbbells on my foot today!”

“Everyone drops them after the final rep. You didn’t move.”

“Well, you’re a shitty spotter too-- sorry, Coach--”

“You put too much weight on the barbell, trying to impress people--”

“That’s the whole _point_ \--”

Mave interrupted them both before things got physical. “Okay, no, you’re clearly picking a fight with each other. Not on my watch. I don’t care who’s at fault, you’re partners and you need to work better than this. That’s your homework, both of you -- find the time to practice before class on Monday. I better see improved relations then, or else we’ll talk consequences.” She pointed at Izaiah. “Watch where you’re throwing your weights.” Her finger swung over to Ceitus. “Don’t overexert yourself.”

Ceitus wanted to argue (he _wasn’t_ putting too much weight on, he was working his way up ten pounds, and Izaiah was supposed to _help_ him past the sticky parts until he could safely lift it on his own), but Mave made it clear that it wasn’t up for discussion.

“End of conversation.” She moved on to the next bank of lockers, and Ceitus and Izaiah narrowed their eyes at each other.

“She’s going to know if we don’t do it, right?” Ceitus finally said.

“Probably.”

“Well, I can’t stay after school.” Ceitus slammed his locker door shut and hoisted his backpack over his shoulder. “I have swim practice every day.” He rubbed the back of his shaved head, thinking. “Why don’t you just come home after 5 tomorrow? My dad won’t be home until later anyway, he’s taking -- _ugh_ \-- Valsia’s mom to dinner.”

“Did you really just say, ‘Come over, my parents aren’t home’?”

The bell rang. Ceitus responded to Izaiah with a very rude hand gesture as he walked away, shoulders hunched up around his pink ears.

\---

“This is your house?”

Ceitus glanced back at Izaiah, not sure if this was a rhetorical question or not. “Yes?”

“This explains… so much about you.”

Ceitus had the sneaking suspicion that he should be offended. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

They passed through the opulent living room, and Izaiah waved his hands at their surroundings. “Dead things and old money. Valsia was right, you live in the Addams Family house.”

“First of all,” Ceitus began, “The Addams Family is great, so that’s not even an insult. Try harder. Second of all, taxidermy is a perfectly respectable hobby, and stuffed heads barely even count as dead animals. Like you don’t have a stuffed moose head in your garage.”

“I can say with all certainty that I _don’t_ have a stuffed moose head in my garage.”

“Well that’s just fucking weird,” Ceitus deadpanned. Izaiah snorted.

They passed through the dining room (Ceitus caught Izaiah glancing up at the ornate candelabra-style chandelier, dripping with deathly sharp black crystal icicles) and the kitchen, where Ceitus briefly introduced Izaiah to the school of tropical fish that lived in the aquarium wall that served as a window to the Barbels’ backyard. Off the kitchen, next to the basement door, was a linen closet that Ceitus rarely touched -- it was the maid’s dominion, not his -- but he opened it long enough to grab two post-workout hand towels and sling them over his shoulder.

Ceitus led them down into the finished walk-out basement, which doubled as a weight room and rec room. A set of Victorian doors opened out onto the patio that overlooked the swimming pool. He had had countless swim team parties and sleepovers in this basement, and it felt strange, inviting Izaiah into such a personal part of his house.

“Weight room’s over here,” he said, tilting his chin in the aforementioned direction.

Almost as soon as he said the words, his phone buzzed in the pocket of his basketball shorts. He pulled it out to see a new message from Kouvia. “Hang on,” he said, tossing the towels on the rec room’s coffee table and sitting down on the arm of the couch. “Let me answer this.”

It wasn’t exactly imperative for him to answer right now; it was just Kouvia inquiring how swim practice went today, since she was aware of the latest interpersonal drama on the team. The school had a breaststroke battalion, four star breaststrokers, which included one of Ceitus’s closest friends. Unfortunately, a new freshman swimmer was constantly stirring up shit because while he was the best freshman breaststroker, he was outclassed by the juniors and seniors. With every meet where he didn't get to swim the 100 breast, he got more and more peeved. Ceitus found it hilarious and was waiting for it all to come to a head.

He didn't _have_ to answer, but he _wanted_ to. He liked keeping Kouvia abreast (the thought made him snicker to himself, and Izaiah raised an eyebrow) of things in his life. Boyfriend or not, she was his best friend.

She responded quickly to his text, and he got sucked into a conversation with her.

Izaiah folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “What about the reason why you invited me over?” he said.

“I know, hang on--”

“To make out, right?”

Ceitus choked on his response. “Wh-- no! Why the fuck would you think-- no!”

Izaiah’s lips curved into an amused smirk, and Ceitus hated that he actually did want to make out with that snarky, stupid mouth.

“Just-- Just-- okay?” Ceitus turned back to his phone. He decided not to tell Kouvia about what had just transpired.

He had intended to just end the conversation with a “gotta go, talk to you later,” but a few minutes later, he looked up to see Izaiah looking distinctly annoyed. “You invited me over to your house, and you’re just going to sit there on your phone?”

“Hey, this is important.” It wasn’t. “Unlike you.” This was also not true.

Izaiah let out a small sigh and stood in front of him, waiting for him to look up. Ceitus did his best to ignore him, but he caved and took the bait, staring up at him with his brow furrowed.

His attention garnered, Izaiah reached down and took the phone from him.

“Hey!” Ceitus protested, springing off the couch to attempt to grab his phone back. He lunged for it, but Izaiah was quicker, holding it over his head. Really, it shouldn’t have been that difficult to get his phone back -- he _was_ taller by an inch, but Izaiah was _slippery_. He tossed it from hand to hand as Ceitus tried to snatch it, grabbing at his arms in vain.

“Fucking dick,” Ceitus grunted. The phone dropped to the floor, but neither of them attempted to go after it, the reason for their fight forgotten. This was bigger than simply getting his phone back -- Ceitus was more interested in establishing his dominance. He snared Izaiah in a clinch hold, and they grappled for the upper hand.

“Is that an offer?”

Ceitus had been shooting for a takedown by snagging his leg around Izaiah’s, but upon hearing _that_ smartass comment, brute force took over. He tackled Izaiah, arms locking around his waist, and sent them both tumbling to the ground.

They brawled on the floor, arms and legs getting all mixed up as they rolled around in an increasingly intense battle to subdue each other. Ceitus swore when they bumped into the coffee table, lashing out at it with his foot to try and scoot away from the obstacle.

With a shout of triumph, he slammed Izaiah against the floor and straddled his hips, pinning his wrists down above him. There was a beat of silence as they both caught their breath, and he realized just how close he was pressed up against Izaiah’s crotch. An intrusive thought wormed its way into his brain: _Man, it would be_ really _awful if you popped a boner right now_.

Izaiah took advantage of his momentary lapse in diligence and leaned up to kiss him on the lips, a quick, chaste smooch that succeeded in throwing him completely off guard. Having successfully disarmed him, Izaiah flipped him over and pressed flush against his back.

It happened too quickly for Ceitus to counter: Izaiah grabbed hold of one arm, his other hand digging into the back of his neck, and he wrenched Ceitus into a half nelson. Ceitus swore and tried to kick him, but Izaiah had repositioned himself safely out of kicking range.

His grip held, pinning him fast to the floor, and Ceitus knew when he had been beat. He tapped out, rapping his fist on the floor twice. “Fucking cheater,” he said, but there was no vitriol behind it. If he was being honest with himself, he didn’t mind losing to Izaiah (which said something, given his intensely competitive nature) -- not if it meant feeling him pressed up against his back.

“I know, I’m deeply ashamed.” Izaiah’s voice was droll as ever as he released Ceitus. He stood up and dusted himself off.

Ceitus sat back on his haunches. “Hey,” he said, grabbing Izaiah’s attention. Izaiah glanced downward. Ceitus attacked his legs, sweeping his feet out from under him. He came down -- _hard_ \-- and Ceitus clambered on top of him. He put all his weight on Izaiah’s torso, planting himself on his waist and bracing his forearm against his chest.

“I can cheat, too.”

“Sore loser,” was all Izaiah could manage with the wind knocked out of him.

“I never said I wasn’t,” Ceitus said with a grin.

Izaiah smirked back at him, and Ceitus felt something unfamiliar stir in the pit of his stomach. Something that made him want to kiss Izaiah, but it wasn’t the same kind of feeling that he got when he looked at Kouvia. He knew there was no chance that he could end up with Kouvia, not while she was still dating Viscer, which tempered his urge to kiss her. It was a wistful kind of longing born out of a decade of friendship, muted but ever-present. He could control it, grateful to be her friend, even if it never turned romantic.

With Izaiah, the desire was immediate and burning, but tinged with nervousness. Unlike with Kouvia, there was actually potential for something to happen between him and Izaiah. He didn’t know _what_ that something was, he didn’t understand any of the emotions he was feeling -- he just knew that confusion twisted in his gut, tangling up with the butterflies of attraction.

Ceitus felt entirely out of control, finding it impossible to keep himself in check around Izaiah. It was that inability to restrain himself that started all this, and his cheeks reddened as he remembered their angry kiss at the Christmas party.

This was different. This time, he was sober. There was no alcohol impairing his judgment. He was totally, completely, _painfully_ aware of what was happening, his entire body buzzing with adrenaline and nerves. He was close enough that he could feel Izaiah’s breath, warm against his cheek.

Ceitus stared into Izaiah’s green eyes, and maybe he was projecting, but he thought he could see a glimmer of desire in them. The very idea made his stomach flip-flop.He couldn’t deny how badly he wanted to kiss him, and he prayed that he wasn’t alone in that.

He took a shaky breath and leaned down, just as Izaiah raised his head, and they met halfway.

It wasn’t like their first kiss, all angry and bruising. This was slow, and sweet, or at least as sweet as a kiss between two six-foot-plus, aggressive, hormonal eighteen year olds could be.

It was nice, Ceitus found himself thinking. He had never pictured himself ever sharing a moment that could be described as tender with Izaiah before, but it was _nice_.

They pulled apart, and Ceitus floundered about for something to say. His emotions were all jumbled up, and he had no idea what the hell you were supposed to say after kissing your rival. Before he could come up with something coherent, Izaiah beat him to the punch.

“Well, that was precious.”

Irritation flared up in Ceitus, followed immediately by acute embarrassment. That’s what he got for baring his soul to Izaiah Kestre. "Shut the fuck up, I'm gonna punch you in the mouth. With my--" He stopped, confused with where he was going with that sentence.

"With your mouth?" Izaiah helpfully supplied with his usual dry humor.

Ceitus felt it again, that nervous flip-flop of his stomach turning over every time he considered anything intimate with Izaiah. "Something like that, yeah," he mumbled, voice indistinct.

"You're gonna have to speak up there."

Ceitus reiterated the sentiment by using his actions, which were worth a thousand words any day. He grabbed Izaiah’s face and kissed him again, all rough and needy. Izaiah's fist twisted in the front of his shirt as he returned the kiss with equal fervor, and Ceitus s fingers tangled in his short dark hair.

He had never kissed anyone like this before. Kisses with his brief eighth grade girlfriend were lacking in passion, no real desire behind them beyond the social obligation he felt to have a girlfriend in the first place. This time, he _wanted_ this, he wanted it so badly that it hurt, lust driving him to press closer to Izaiah. He fumbled with the bottom of Izaiah's shirt, slipping a hand underneath it. He didn't know what he was doing -- it wasn't like Izaiah _had_ anything up there for him to grab -- but he didn't seem to mind, beyond an initial hiss of air at the sensation of Ceitus's cold fingers.

Things were treading dangerously close to unfamiliar territory, and he could feel himself getting excited. Logic told him to pull away, but blood was decidedly _not_ flowing towards his brain, and instead he pressed his hips down.

He wasn't the only one getting enthusiastic, however. He didn't know if Izaiah could feel just how turned on he was, or if he was just particularly brazen, but those were _definitely_ Izaiah’s hands making their way up his ass.

“God,” Ceitus gasped against Izaiah’s lips, breaking away from him. “You get handsy real quick.”

“You forget who I hang out with.”

“...Yeah. That makes sense.” But Ceitus didn't want to think about Reinis or Valsia right now (although it _would_ have helped make the situation in his pants a little less pressing), so he sat back on his heels and tried to regulate his breathing.

He was panting with exertion, face flushed, and he knew he had to look like a wreck. And yet, for the first time in his life, he found himself not caring what someone else thought of him. He pushed Izaiah’s shirt up, fingers brushing over his abs. They stopped just above the waistband of his sweats.

“Can I, uh…?” He trailed off, letting Izaiah fill in the blanks.

Izaiah let out an exasperated huff of air. “If I really didn’t want you touching me, do you think I’d be lying here waiting for you to get a move on? I’m not getting any younger here.”

Ceitus frowned. So much for attempting to be polite and respectful for a change. “Shut up, I need a moment,” he said, brow furrowing as he worked up the nerve to take the next step.

“Would you like me to hold your hand?”

“No!” Ceitus spluttered. “I know what I’m doing!”

That was the wrong thing to say, and he immediately regretted it when Izaiah’s lips twitched upward. “Really? I thought you ‘weren’t gay.’ Do you just make it a habit of whipping out people’s dicks, then?”

If he hadn’t been sure that it would ruin the moment entirely, Ceitus would have punched the smirk off of his face. “I meant that I _have_ a dick, asshole.”

“I know. I can feel it.”

Ceitus choked out a strangled noise of embarrassment. He was half hard, turned on by the close quarters contact, but he had been desperately praying that it wasn’t obvious enough for Izaiah to notice.

Apparently it was. But from what he could tell, Izaiah wasn’t faring much better. He shifted, rubbing experimentally against him.

It must have been the right thing to do, because Izaiah encouraged him, latching on to the back of his thighs.

It bolstered Ceitus’s confidence, a much needed shot of courage that pushed him to try again. He gripped Izaiah’s hips, thumbs digging into the V cut of his abs, and kissed him, all teeth and tongue and unbridled aggression. His self-control had vanished entirely, leaving nothing but a primal urge to get closer, closer, _closer_. He shoved up against Izaiah, grinding his hips down. His head was foggy with lust, and the friction was simultaneously too much and not enough.

He thrust down again, driven by that animalistic urge that threatened to consume him, and Izaiah broke away to huff a short burst of laughter.

“Desperate, aren’t you?”

Ceitus didn’t know how he had enough blood left to blush so furiously, given how much of it was flowing due south, but apparently he did. “Fuck you,” he spat.

“I thought that was kind of the point.”

He completely disregarded the comment. “I’m not desperate. I don’t want you or need you or anything like that.”

“You don’t want me,” Izaiah repeated. He glanced downward before meeting Ceitus’s gaze again. ”That’s exactly why you’re pitching a tent right now.”

There weren’t many times that Ceitus regretted having a dick. The time that Xirran kneed him in the crotch came readily to mind. And now, when it betrayed him to his… friend? Rival? He didn’t know what to call Izaiah. Surely he pissed him off too much to call him a friend, but then again, he genuinely enjoyed spending time with him. When he wasn’t goading him, Izaiah was surprisingly good company.

He didn’t know _what_ Izaiah was to him, but he did know that he liked this. Kissing him sent him into a whirlwind of confusion and exhilaration, but it awoke a hunger in him that had been lying dormant for years, and he craved _more_.

“I want this,” he admitted after a pregnant pause, his voice low. “The... action. I’m not into dudes but...” But that was a lie. He looked at Izaiah and was undeniably attracted to him; he wanted to kiss him until he bruised, he wanted to touch him and be touched in return, and he found himself unable to finish his sentence.

He wasn’t good at expressing himself with words. He never had been. He fumbled over himself when he got emotional, wit giving way to stuttering sentences and streams of swear words. He was better at expressing himself through actions, and he demonstrated this by making out some more.

In his Anatomy and Physiology class, Ceitus had learned that there was a fine, fine line between the brain’s hate circuit and the center responsible for love. Both activated the putamen and the insular cortex, and suddenly his confused feelings made so much more sense.

He didn’t know whether it was love (lust?) or hate that made him bite Izaiah’s lower lip. He decided it was some unholy combination of the two. For a split second, he worried that he’d crossed some unspoken boundary, but Izaiah seemed to like it -- at least, judging by the way he yanked on Ceitus’s basketball shorts and nipped him in return.

Izaiah’s fingers traced down the bumps of his spine and dipped beneath the waistband of his boxers.

Ceitus broke off the kiss and reared back. Izaiah hesitated, but Ceitus did nothing to remove his hands, so he remained where he was.

Ceitus splayed his own fingers across Izaiah’s taut stomach. His brow furrowed in intense concentration as he grappled with some inner demon, a spectre of self-doubt that kept him from doing what he really wanted to do.

Izaiah sighed. He took his hands off of Ceitus’s ass long enough to grab Ceitus’s left hand (and his touch shouldn’t have burned against his skin, but all Ceitus could think about was the way his wrist tingled beneath Izaiah’s fingers). He guided it to the front of his pants and let go, letting Ceitus take it from there.

Ceitus bit his lip. All of a sudden, this felt real in a way that it hadn’t before. Making out was one thing, but this was below the belt and-- he shut off the center of his brain that was ringing warning bells, and rubbed Izaiah though the fabric of his sweatpants.

Izaiah hummed, and it was an encouraging sound, as if he knew that Ceitus needed the morale support.

Emboldened, Ceitus tugged at his pants, pulling them down to his knees.

Realistically, he had known that Izaiah was every bit as turned on as he was, he’d _felt_ it just now, but seeing it was another thing entirely.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Ceitus’s eyes snapped up to Izaiah’s amused expression; he hadn’t realized he’d been staring. He briefly imagined a snapshot of this moment, a picture of Izaiah _just like this_ , a dirty little secret he kept hidden under his mattress. “Shut _up_ ,” he said, words failing him yet again in the heat of the moment.

He was done being taunted. Done trying to keep himself from doing exactly what he wanted to do, to wrap his hand around the base of Izaiah’s cock.

He thought he heard Izaiah breathe a soft “ _finally_ ,” but he ignored it, focusing on his hand. He had never done this before, but he knew what _he_ liked, so he tried to replicate that by tightening his grip.

Izaiah tensed beneath him, but he didn’t think it was a bad thing; his hips canted upward ever so slightly. Pleasure diffused through Ceitus, warm with the knowledge that he must have been doing _something_ right. Still, it wasn’t enough to shake his pervasive lack of self-esteem and uncertainty with the unfamiliar.

Ceitus found himself imagining a future where he wasn't a complete fucking wreck, where he had the self-confidence to properly -- the phrase “jerk someone off” popped into his head, and the reality of what, precisely, he was doing hit him like a semi.

“Okay, but, you know this isn’t gay, right?” he blurted out.

Izaiah rolled his eyes so hard they were in danger of disappearing in the back of his skull. “Ceitus, you _literally just got into my pants_. I didn’t make you do that, so _yes_ , I really think this is extremely gay.”

“I know, but-- but--”

“Can you have your sexuality crisis later?”

He hesitated, then nodded.

“Good.” Izaiah tugged Ceitus’s boxers down to join his shorts.

It wasn't like Ceitus had never thought about messing around with Izaiah before -- especially after the Christmas party incident. Quite the opposite, in fact: he could vividly recall one night last week where he was in his bed, long after all chatter on the message boards had ceased. He remembered the way he had screwed his eyes shut, hand shoved down the front of his pajama bottoms, and imagined that it was Izaiah’s hand. He remembered afterward, burying his head into the cool side of his pillow to try and extinguish the shame that burned on his face.

But imagination was very different from reality, and he couldn't suppress a shiver as Izaiah’s fingers wrapped around him.

Ceitus didn't dare look him in the eye. He _hoped_ that his reaction had gone unnoticed, and he didn't want to find out otherwise, so he resolutely watched their hands, movements unconsciously falling in sync.

Several feet away, his phone buzzed, screen lighting up with a text from Kouvia. This time, Ceitus ignored it.

He'd feel bad about it later. For now, he rationalized it away -- she had a boyfriend to keep her company, and he was in the middle of a life-altering event.

He was _acutely_ aware of the fact that this was the first time he'd touched --and been touched by-- someone else so intimately, and his self-consciousness showed.

His eyes betrayed him, darting up to Izaiah's face, as cool as ever and clearly enjoying how flustered he was. Disliking the idea of being laughed at, Ceitus growled and buried his head in the crook of Izaiah’s neck to hide his face.

“Did you just _growl_ at me?”

“No. Shut up or I'll bite you,” Ceitus responded, words muffled against Izaiah's skin. Obscuring his face was preferable to looking him in the eye, so he busied himself by mouthing at Izaiah’s neck.

He had woken up that morning with the knowledge that Izaiah would be coming over later. He just hadn’t anticipated that it would end up like this: on the floor with izaiah, the silky mesh of his shorts pooling around his thighs, both gripping each other with an unparalleled fervor.

Izaiah twisted his hand in a way that made Ceitus’s stomach curl in delight, and he reacted instinctively by biting down on his collarbone. “Sorry,” he mumbled, pressing an apologetic kiss to the mark -- _god_ , he hoped it left a mark, and he filed _that_ thought away for future analysis. For all his smartass talk, he hadn't intended to actually bite down.

“It's fine,” Izaiah replied in a voice that indicated that it was more than fine. Curious, Ceitus leaned back just enough to see that Izaiah’s cool was slipping. He tucked his head down to hide a smile and increased the intensity of his strokes.

When he was alone in bed or the shower, he had always been a quickie kind of guy, ten minutes top -- endurance training was for swimming, and he was too full of testosterone and hormones to drag things out.

He was beginning to regret not working harder to build up his stamina, though. “Fuck, Izaiah, I'm--”

He didn't have to finish the sentence, much to his relief. “I know,” Izaiah said, sounding equally strained.

Ceitus sat up straight. For a brief moment, he paused everything. It was unbelievable that this was happening to him right now: Izaiah beneath him, his dick in his hand, gazing up at him with an intensity that he never thought possible.

The spell broke, and Ceitus used his free hand to reach behind him and tug off his tank top in one smooth motion.

He tossed his shirt aside and looked at a still-clothed Izaiah, who narrowed his eyes at him, as if to say, _I hope you're not planning on getting_ my _clothes dirty._

Ceitus flipped Izaiah's shirt over his face. “I can get off better this way,” he said.

Izaiah released him and wrestled his shirt off to find Ceitus grinning down at him, pleased beyond words at his own quip. “You can get off by yourself that way.”

The smile vanished entirely. “No no no no, Izaiah, please--” Ceitus’s dignity was one of the things he valued most, but at that moment, half naked and vulnerable, he wasn't too proud to beg.

Izaiah pretended to consider it. “Well, since you asked so nicely…”

Izaiah's fingers curled around his shaft, and Ceitus closed his eyes and mirrored his touch. His breath was coming in staccato gasps, long past the point of caring if he sounded uncool, and when Izaiah sped up his pace, he lost it entirely. He came a notable amount of seconds before Izaiah did (later, he'd feel like he had lost some kind of unspoken war of the wills, but right now, he was too wrapped up in how _good_ it all felt), spilling across both of their stomachs.

He needed a few seconds to just breathe heavily, basking in the rush of endorphins that pulsed through him. He felt like he’d just finished a particularly brutal dryland session (sometimes he was convinced Coach Cron hated his star swimmers -- none of them looked forward to out-of-water swim practices, groaning theatrically every time Coach told them the pool was off-limits).

Having regained better control of himself, Ceitus rolled off of Izaiah and reached for the towels he had abandoned on the coffee table. He had anticipated needing them after working out -- he just hadn’t expected _this_ kind of workout. He threw one of the towels at Izaiah’s head and used the other to clean himself up before pulling his shorts back up.

Later that night, he'd have a breakdown -- knees hugged to his chest as he panicked about what this meant for him and obsessively replayed the day’s events in his head. He’d imagine what it would be like to walk down the halls of their high school, fingers laced between Izaiah’s, to brush up against him during weightlifting practice and exchange a private, meaningful glance, to aggressively make out with him behind the gym after school. He’d try to sort out his feelings. He’d bite his knuckle and wonder if Izaiah felt the same way.

But as for right now, he was content, all anxiety shoved into the deepest recesses of his mind.

“Now what?” he asked. He turned his head to look at Izaiah. He had a striking profile, with unexpectedly long dark eyelashes, that scar curving up his cheek, his crooked nose imperfect but oddly handsome.

Izaiah shrugged. "Practice spotting like Coach Watcheye wanted us to?"

Ceitus nodded. “Yeah.” He hauled himself off the floor and extended a hand to Izaiah, who took it. He memorized the sensation of Izaiah’s palm pressed against his  own, one thumb hooked over the other, and pulled him to his feet. “Yeah,” he repeated. He let go of Izaiah’s hand and together, they wordlessly headed to the weight room. 


End file.
